


A Walk to Remember

by DovahDoes



Series: John/Nuada Meet-Cutes [6]
Category: Hellboy (Movies 2004-2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Holidays, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mostly just sleepy!John, Not Antarctica for once!, Nuala and Wink pop up at the very end, Original Character(s), Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Protective Nuada, Soulmates, and even though they only JUST meet properly for the first time there's, go figure, there's also Implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 13:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: It's somewhere past midnight at the BPRD base and John has resigned himself to having to find help getting back into his room because he's somehow managed to lock himself out after sleepwalking for the first time in decades.  Thankfully, the rest of the building is pretty much deserted at the hour, so getting his door unlocked should be relatively straight-forward.The operative term there is'should be'.





	A Walk to Remember

**Author's Note:**

> [The plot (and genres) of this fic have nothing to do with the movie whose title it shares.]
> 
> This AU takes place during the Christmas after events of the first film, sometime before Hellboy had John transferred elsewhere. Also, yeah. This was supposed to be posted during the holidays. So. I really nailed _that_ timing. lol
> 
> That being said, I hope this fic still makes you smile. :]

 

A shining, golden light wraps him in faint, elusive warmth that is not dissimilar to being bathed in the sunlight of summer’s last vestiges; there is that same quality of intense heat edged in a suggestion of a burgeoning chill.  Shortly thereafter, there suddenly swells a cacophonous, repeated sound of blades clashing with other blades, armor, wood, and – jarringly— _flesh_ all around.

 

His blunted senses expand minutely, and he can now hear _and_ feel the dull roar of something steadily getting closer. There is the clank and whir of something _large_ , nearby; vibrations from its footfalls thud through his chest and heated air hissing from its body sweeps over his side as it sprints by at pace.  In addition comes the smell of embers intermingled with something discomfittingly indescribable (but definitely _dangerous)_ that he can soon taste in the air.

 

 _Magic_.

 

Grimacing **,** he lifts his hands to cover his ringing ears in hopes of muffling the crescendoing, grating sound of more machines approaching; there are enough of them, he knows even without being able to see them, to be labeled an army.  His effort proves partially futile, however, as he is easily able to hear the last sound to finally filter into the unseen tableau of chaotic violence— someone is shouting something.  Yelling a name… _his_ name.

 

Calling him.

 

His heartbeat is strangely sluggish, considering the dizzy, overwhelmed panic subsuming almost his every thought.  For whatever reason, he is inexorably drawn to the clarion voice, which is drawing nearer and nearer, even while the madness of the battle continues roiling around him.

 

If only he could just _see_ who is calling for him, he wishes, lowering his arms and blinking sightless eyes.  But, damningly, there is still only the steady, golden glow all around him.

 

Abruptly, the man calling him is right next to him, and when a hand grasps his elbow while tugging him forward, the light flares bright and blinding for a moment.  Concurrently, he jerks to stop in his tracks as a hot barb of sudden, painful heat drives straight through his abdomen, and he chokes out a blood-flavoured wheeze, both hands instinctively coming down to his midsection. 

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Like a switch has been flipped, warm golden light snaps into a dizzying focus and is instead revealed to be the familiar, half-dim fluorescent lighting of the New Jersey BPRD base’s hallways.

 

Intensely disoriented (and suffering from a bit of flop sweat), John Myers comes to in the corridor right in front of his room, his hands white knuckled around a strip of cobalt-coloured fabric that digs into the spot just above his navel.  He blinks while his neighbor’s door across from him comes into focus in the dim fluorescent lighting that still glints off of the attached white-tinseled wreath.

 

Embarrassingly, in spite of the way his heart is only just beginning to slow down to something more approaching what’s normal, it takes him a few seconds to think to release the aforementioned fabric he's been clutching and step back to provide a bit of slack so he can move more freely.

 

Except that he quickly realizes he actually _still_ can’t move freely, because he’d not _only_ donned his spare houserobe and pulled the belt around himself _backwards_ while sleepwalking, but he’d also then left his room for some reason.  That’s not terrible, in and of itself, except that A.) the tails of the belt had been caught in the door when it had automatically closed behind him, and B.) knowing that this is his extra robe, he’s painfully aware that there are no pockets to hold his room keycard.

 

“Yep,” he mutters to himself, more resigned and tired than upset as he tries gently tugging at one of the two ends of the belt that is wedged tightly between the metal door and the doorframe.  “This seems about right.”

 

It’s the night before Christmas, and most people had had the sense to head home to spend time with family, or just take advantage of the offered vacation time to at least leave the base.  Having lost his uncle the year before, however, there’d been nobody for John _to_ visit, as pathetic as the thought is, and _Hellboy_ has certainly been uninterested in welcoming him into the fold of his makeshift family, lately.

 

And so, when the opportunity presented itself, the young agent had been one of the first to volunteer to remain on base through the holidays as part of the primary ready response team, in case there were any emergency calls or urgent cases that might need attention.  At least the overtime-and-a-half pay is somewhat of a consolation for his currently stunted social life.  (Or more accurately, for the several years-worth of student loans that the FBI had only partially helped pay off, after he’d been officially inducted and on payroll for several years.)

 

The morose thoughts swirling idly around his sleep-deprived brain quickly subside when he _finally_ manages to pull one of the ends of the belt free from the door.  Stumbling backward with the momentum of his final, successful tug, John realizes his mistake a moment too late as the door moves forward an infinitesimal amount further into its inopportune position with an audible click.

 

 _Goddamit_.

 

Righting himself as best as he can, John gazes despairingly at the door, soon realizing that he hasn’t yet simply tried to open it by turning the handle.  Unfortunately, when he steps forward and half-heartedly presses down on the handle, now, it remains in place and clacks and clunks when he tries pushing forward.  

 

Just _why_ had his long-dormant habit of sleepwalking chosen _now_ to rear its ugly head?  And on a far less significant (but still grating) note, why does he unfailingly manage to always put his shoes on the wrong feet?

 

With a sigh, the BPRD agent blearily rubs at his eyes and lets his hand drag down his face and past the uncomfortable, prickly start of stubble.  Bluish-green eyes take in the fraying fabric of his robe’s sash which remains partially trapped in place and dangles like an odd, miscoloured tongue from the doorway.

 

God _damnit_ , he thinks to himself, again, while kicking his slippers off and hastily stepping back into each one with the _correct_ foot, muzzily squinting at the vertical slot next to the doorknob.

 

Usually, he’d consider asking his more technologically inclined across-the-way-neighbor if he’d be willing to hack into the electronic locking mechanism… thing, but the kid had flown out to see his relatives in Chicago a few days back.

 

Yawning, he finally gives up the ghost and settles on the easiest option to get back into his warm bed and back to a more restful sleep: having someone remotely unlock it for him.

 

Shuffling off at a middling pace, John is actually thankful of the ostensibly very late hour, as nobody else is around in the considerately dimmed lighting of the barracks wing.  Ideally, only the person whose quarters he is heading towards will be forced to observe a bedraggled thirty-something walking around in nothing more than a pair of boxer briefs, his oldest (and comfiest) robe, and a pair of well-loved house shoes.

 

The distance from said person’s location is inconvenient, but thankfully, the BPRD’s assistant director— Marie Okembe— _is_ working through the holidays, too.  She might seem an odd source of a viable solution, but in John’s defense, A.) sleep deprivation does not a helpful aid for sound decisions make, and B.) the employee front desk is bound to be vacant at this (undoubtedly obscene) time of the night during a holiday.

 

Several minutes pass blearily by as he meanders his way down darkened, familiar hallways.

 

It’s predictably a bit nippy in the building’s deserted halls— hence many rooms being equipped with their own thermostats— and the chilly climate definitely keeps him moving at a brisk pace, since John is not a fan of the cold.

 

Shivering, he roughly pulls one side of his robe tighter across his chest and then covers that side with the other so that at least he’s not catching any more of a chill than is he has to.  Really, it’s a bit of an exercise in futility, as the robe only goes down to his knees or so, and although walking _does_ generate heat, it won’t necessarily offset the draft consistently traveling straight up from bottom half of his legs.

 

Tragically, his theretofore solitary sojourn hits its first speedbump as he exits the communal rec area.  Just as his path brightens thanks to this hallway’s more typical harsh lighting, someone comes around the corner he’ll be turning himself, shortly.

 

“Naomi!” he says, startled, in a voice still hoarse from sleep.  “Hey.  Just… had, ah, the hankering for a midnight snack.”

 

Naomi from IHR (because why would the first person he meets in the middle of the night _not_ be from NonHuman Resources) looks both wide awake _and_ unimpressed.  John hopes he’s managing to suppress the grimace his face would very much like to fall into.

 

“Gotta get those Christmas cookies before it’s too late!”

 

“Mhm.  Happy holidays, Agent Myers,” she replies breezily, still maintaining an uptight air, despite literally having her hair down and being dressed completely casually in what must be her off hours, too.

 

John gulps as one of the kitsune’s tails nearly brushes against him.  In the seconds following, her voice carries rather well, despite her growing distance from him.

 

“Cookies are in the kitchens— you just passed the door.  Don’t forget to come back for them!”

 

Almost tripping over one of his slippers as he turns left and approaches the closed doors of the library where the above-ground portion of Abe’s tank is located, John blanches at being so quickly caught out.  _This_ is exactly why he’d had issues in his first few lessons in covert activities training— he is classically awful at lying on the spot.

 

Taking a quick moment to pause and wiggle his left foot fully back into his worn thin slipper, he’s glad to see that at last he’s now only a short hallway, a flight of stairs, and one more long hallway away from getting his door unlocked and _finally_ getting back to bed.

 

He’s realizing something a bit alarming, however, as he absently gazes at the occasional red and gold bauble or bit of festive ribbonwork attached to the last few darkened doorways:  he’s going to have to explain to one of his superiors exactly _how_ he came to wander the hallways at an ungodly hour on what might very well be Christmas Day, at this point, and in nothing but his underwear and a threadbare robe, to boot. 

 

Instead of copping to being the world’s most hapless sleepwalker, maybe he’d blame it on the recent influx of little cave pixies that have been known to nab little things from about any room they can magic their way into.  He all but discards the idea almost immediately, though, as he knows he’d just end up feeling guilty the next time he encounters one of the adorable tiny creatures.

 

Pushing the door to the stairwell open, John immediately notices that the stairs are blocked by another one of his coworkers.  Or at least… someone that’s known to frequent the BPRD’s New Jersey base.  Luckily, they very politely move to the side to let John pass.

 

Because he is a glutton for punishment, his small-town ‘say ‘hi’ to everyone’ complex (again) rears its ugly head, in spite of the uniquely unsuitable circumstances.  The extra-dimensional, sentient glow cloud that sometimes hovers ominously in back hallways— and near stairwells, apparently, he amends— as usual says nothing, but _does_ seem to bob a bit, as if nodding in response.

 

He’s only met the amorphous, quasi-opaque cloud once or twice in the past, but all the same, John feels compelled to state nothing but the most honest version of the events he’s experienced tonight, in spite of the fabrication he’d _just_ been half-heartedly mulling over in preparation for meeting Assistant Director Okembe.  Concisely, he conveys how he’d locked himself out of his room in his drawers and an old robe like the world’s dumbest college freshmen or some sort of rejected pervert.

 

As soon as his semi-involuntary information overflow stops, he snaps his mouth shut and apologizes with an abrupt, rushed “Agh, sorry!  I, uh— happy holidays?”

 

Good _God_ , how else can he embarrass himself on a four-minute walk, he wonders, waving a stilted goodbye before noisily plodding down the two flights of stairs, house shoes mutedly clapping with each step down.  (Oddly, John thinks that the half-corporeal, glowing cloud had seemed to pulsate a little less ominously than usual while somehow conveying the sensation of ‘ah, we’ve all been there’.)  On the way down, he blows out a forceful ‘whoosh’ of air that somehow seems to help his warm, prickling cheeks feel a bit less like they might literally be aflame.

 

Hastily exiting the stairwell, the rarely occupied set of sizeable rooms utilized for the rare higher-ranking official that chooses to stay on site come into view at the distant end of the hallway.  His complete and total focus on finally reaching his goal proves to be his downfall, however, as he fails to take note of his peripheral vision while moving through one last intersection of the lesser-used corridors.

 

Gasping immediately at the startle, John has the utter misfortune to almost collide with someone who is walking a path perpendicular to his own— one that aims toward the mysterious corridor to the left.

 

“Watch it, hum—” a smooth tenor bites lowly, before abruptly halting all while John is still reeling.

 

Two things immediately become clear to the junior BPRD agent: 1.)  they must have placed the wing just for dignitaries and emissaries adjacent to the one for ranking bureau officials, and 2.) beauty sleep apparently isn’t a thing for Bethmooran elves, which is unbelievable considering how attractive the one he’s just literally run into in the middle of night is.

 

Said conclusions are quickly reached because the person who’d reached out and briefly laid a warm, steadying hand on his upper bicep is none other than Prince Nuada Silverlance.

 

Unfortunately, having nearly tripped over himself, John had had both his arms flung out reflexively.  At the combination of the shock of someone actually grabbing him and keeping him from falling ass over teakettle, and the sudden rush of cold air hitting his bare chest and upper legs, his breath freezes in his throat.  Faster than he’s done anything since waking up from his weird sleep-walking misadventure, earlier, he snaps shut the front of his robe.

 

With a hand holding each lapel, and one completely obscured by the fabric of the other side, John feels his face begin to heat up again while he anxiously darts wide eyes up to meet those of his latest fellow late-night wanderer.  He’s almost sure he doesn’t imagine the way the other man’s golden gaze takes an extra second or so to lift upwards and meet his own.

 

Mouth dry (and lower back prickling with sudden perspiration), John isn’t sure whether to address the unsolicited, _deeply_ embarrassing impromptu burlesque ‘incident’ he’d just subjected the nomadic prince to.  With his mind having gone white hot and blank, his animal hindbrain makes the decision for him, as the logic and decision-making center in his brain seems to have gone unhelpfully silent.

 

“Sorry!  Your Highn— Prince Nuada!   I was just, ah, making my way down this way… which you can probably see.  So that, uh, so that. I can meet the assistant director.”

 

It’s nearly imperceptible, but John’s pretty sure he can see the elf’s eyebrows raise slightly and a shift in expression begin to form.

 

“Oh— _oh_!  No— I mean, I just need for someone to unlock the door to my room.  Because I…. accidentally locked myself out.”

 

Nuada blinks.  And makes a ‘hm’ sound of acknowledgement, but otherwise looks essentially unperturbed by the entire situation.

 

A residual chill from the mere half-a-breath's time that his robes had gaped open runs down his spine, and John removes one of his hands from where it has been clutching the innermost layer of the robe’s front and uses it to chafe at the opposite arm.

 

Glancing briefly away from the immortal prince who _still_ hasn’t said another word, and squinting at the end of the hallway, The off-duty BPRD agent takes a moment to try and remember which of the corridor’s last three rooms is the right one.  Thankfully, from what he knows, each door should have the name of the person in residence written on it, which he’ll hopefully be able to better discern in a minute.  Instead of wasting more time on suppositions on the matter, he quickly refocuses on the stoic, handsome visage in front of him, and begins clumsily trying to conclude their interaction.

 

“Al…right.  Sorry for almost bumping into you, and it’s great to have you guys on base.  Oh— I’m John by the way.  Anyway, again, apologies for everything and thanks for keeping me from faceplanting and everything.  I’m just going to go—”

 

“I know you, Agent John Myers: you were part of the security detail assigned to my sister when we first arrived on base, last week.”

 

John’s eyebrows raise and he almost steps back, feeling more than a little confused.  What the hell?  Had he done a bad enough job that the guy had asked for his information?  Before he has a chance to articulate his questions, the elf continues.

 

“I always vet any outsourced security— especially when it comes to Nuala’s safety.  There have been only favourable reports of your work ethic and dedication to your duties since you were sent here.   Additionally, I was interested in your role in the fiasco with that _hae vaern_ , Rasputin.  And more importantly, your association with Anung-Un Rama.  You were sufficient in performing your duties on my sister’s behalf.  You have my thanks and growing admiration.”

 

Now utterly rather poleaxed and feeling a bit flustered for some reason, John barely avoids making too much bigger a fool of himself.

 

“I— thank you?  And… the BPRD is certainly glad to, uh, have such prestigious scions of Bethmoora, here?”

 

The prince’s amber eyes are piercing and it has John feeling a bit hot under the collar, for some reason.  Certainly, having that reaction is exactly as surreal as his standing here in his _underwear and old houserobe_ _while talking to a_ _prince_.

 

...why did he come down here, again?

 

“No thanks are necessary, and we are pleased to be here while on our journey to find what we have sought for quite some time.”

 

(The almost pointedly vague, enigmatic response goes, admittedly _right_ over the sleep-deprived BPRD agent’s head, and he slightly furrows his brows before giving up on even trying to puzzle anything out.)

 

Although his cheeks are feeling particularly warm, John is otherwise only beginning to feel more and more chilly, as his body begins to cool down due to his having stopped moving for several straight minutes.  It would be nice to stay and ask about the inscrutable statement the supernaturally graceful being in front of him had just made, but he _really_ needs to get back to his room, his warm bed with its flannel and fleece-lined sheet set, and the little space heater that had _just_ started to get his miniscule living space to a livable, warm temperature.

 

“Alright, glad to hear that,” he says, agreeably.  “Well then… it was nice to have made your acquaintance, Your Highness, but I really have to—”

 

“Here— allow me to escort you to your destination; I am unfamiliar with much of this illogically designed building’s layout and could do with knowing where to reach some of the commanding officers.”

 

On the verge of protesting, John’s mouth snaps shut when, almost faster than he can comprehend, Nuada unclasps the simple, fur-lined cloak that has sat draped open over his uniquely tailored set of Bethmooran royal vestment and lays it about the younger man’s shoulders. 

 

“Uh...—“

 

“I am not much affected by temperature in either direction, so I am sure you’ll find greater benefit from wearing that.  Now, lead on: I much desire to see your superior’s quarters, that I may return to them in future, if need be.”

 

“S-sure.  It’s just down this same hallway, here.”  John says, feeling a bit bewildered and very much as though he’s missed an important part of a conversation that he’s pretty sure they’ve never had.

 

There is a gentle hand over his midback that bolsters his pace, though, and God help him if the thought of shrugging it away never even once occurs to him during the last leg of his walk to the A.D.’s rooms.

 

Hands down, this has _definitely_ turned out to be the most surreal Christmas he has ever experienced.

 

*

 

It is not in Assistant Director Marie Okembe’s character to make speculations about or intrude on any of her agents’ personal lives, but she really cannot help but to be more than a bit intrigued as when Agent Myers shows up to her quarters at 1:25AM.  The young man is rosy-cheeked and windswept-looking, with a deliberately impassive Nuada Silverlance close at his back, and is requesting a remote unlocking of John’s door.

 

Shortly, the deed is done with a minimal amount of conversation, besides the gentle warning she gives the junior agent about perhaps keeping his keycard on his person, even when going to sleep.  After they leave, she decides that it just might be time to turn in— it is the earliest hours of Christmas Day, after all— and the perplexed woman soon toes off her shoes as she enters her foyer.

 

Wrapping her artfully pressed hair in a satin scarf in front of the bathroom mirror, later on, she does her best to go back to thinking thoughts of only the thousand-and-one ‘Merry Christmas!’ phone calls she’ll be making to several members of her immediate family, during the oncoming daylight hours.

 

Not much later, though, she lies in bed, underneath the less scratchy of her two heavy, fleece-lined duvets, and there is little she can do to keep her drifting, slowing mind from wandering back to the encounter earlier.

 

She has no earthly idea if Agent Myers had ended up making his way back to his room by his lonesome, nor why he’d been wearing the prickly elf prince’s (likely priceless), age-old cold weather cloak ahead of that trip, but she is at least professional enough to never consider inquiring about it.

 

*

 

Much to John’s chagrin, however, the gossip-mongering phantom who ends up reviewing the security feed from holidays has no such compunction about separating professional matters from personal ones, and wastes no time in inundating the rumour mill with wild stories of ‘Prince Nuada and Agent Myers’ scandalous, midnight run-in’ over the next several days.

 

It’s not the _best_ New Years he’s ever had, but it’s at least a whole lot less lonely than his Christmas, since he ends up spending it with his tentative new acquaintances— the Prince and Princess of Bethmoora— at an informal get-together hosted in a tucked away little shop in the Trenton Troll Market.

 

Frankly, it gets a bit _too_ exciting, when several black-masked Bethmooran praetorian guards kick down the doors and attack Nuada and Nuala in search of some sort of missing crown.  John pulls Nuala behind a countertop for cover as Wink roars and leaps into the fray with Nuada.  The young man makes sure Nuala can safely escape down the trap door that the shop owner holds open, and then unholsters his gun.

 

Something crashes to the ground and the sound of broken glass of varying sizes and weights follows, as well as a pained, muffled grunt.  The off-duty BPRD agent flicks off the safety on his service weapon, stretches his shoulders, and rolls out from behind the countertop while aiming for any of the attacker’s soft spots.

 

 _Man_ , is Hellboy gonna be _pissed_ when he figures out that he’s missed all the action because of his Christmas staycation.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Hae vaern_ – **Mad wizard. _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_ **(said: hey VAIRN)**

 

**Author's Note:**

> (Anyone spot the Night Vale reference? ;p)
> 
> Anyhoot, yeah, there're vague hints at some soulmate (or even re-incarnation??) shenanigans in that beginning dream sequence. Furthermore, Nuada's quick 180 in attitude when they bump into each other kind of speaks to that, too. 
> 
> I was really just winging it with this AU, so Lord knows why things are the way they are with the Golden Crown, here.
> 
> P.S. [When Kings May](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16369988) has been updated with chapters 3 through 10, so head over if you're interested.  
> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


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